


Spin Cycle

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: Arthur as the extra thirsty member of a VERY ENTHUSIASTIC Alfred’s soulcycle class with Francis egging the whole thing on.Working out with the hope of getting worked out and worked over.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

“This should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.” 

“That’s a bit much much, don’t you think, my dear?” 

What was a bit much, Arthur thought, was that Francis wasn’t even winded by the torture they were both currently experiencing. It was a bit much that he was pouring buckets of ungainly sweat onto the floor while his thighs felt like they were going to tear into two and his lungs were going to explode. He hated spin class. Hated it, loathed it, despised it. Exercise was for fools. 

“Why,” Arthur panted, “Would anyone submit themselves to this ridiculous farce several times a week?” 

Francis stood up in the pedals and cast him an evil smile. “Beauty is pain,” he said, “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know much about that.” 

If he hadn’t felt so close to death in that moment, Arthur would have considered reaching across the gap that separated their bikes and pulling on Francis’ stupid hair until he squealed for mercy, but he settled for giving him the dirties look he could muster while trying to drown out the thumping bass of some nonsense pop song. 

“Besides,” Francis teased, sweeping his hair over his shoulder as he settled back down into his seat, “I think we both know why you are really here. Why you come back every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:30pm, despite your endless litany against it.” 

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.” Arthur was momentarily grateful for the flush of overexertion that covered up the tattletale blush on his cheeks. “I have -- 

“OK EVERYONE, AMAZING, AWESOME JOB! LET’S DROP THE CADENCE TO 60-80 AND BRING THAT RESISTANCE DOWN TO 20. YOU’VE MADE IT TO THE COOL DOWN!! PUT YOUR HEART ON YOUR CHEST AND FEEL THE LOVE YOU’VE GIVEN TO YOUR BODY TODAY! FEEL THAT ENERGY PULSING THROUGH YOU AND EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM!” 

“That,” Francis towards the source of the very loud interruption at the front of the room, “is what I mean. I bet you would love to share your pulsing energy with at least one person in here.” 

Arthur feigned indifference as he dutifully put his hand on his heart and pretended that the bright, stupidly encouraging smile emanating from one Alfred Jones, spin instructor extraordinaire, was for him and him alone. Alfred’s face glistened beneath the studio lights, the sheen of sweat somehow making him look even more like a god on high than he had any right to, what with his cycle-toned legs and his perfectly straight teeth and prettily bulging biceps. Truly, it was disgusting. 

“GIVE YOURSELF A HIGH-FIVE AND HUG FOR MAKING IT THROUGH! YOU ARE STRONGER NOW THAN WHEN YOU WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR!”

“He’s ridiculous,” Arthur said, wiping sweat from his brow. “He’s so American. So loud and happy. He smiles too much and says things like _if you chose easy you walked through the wrong door_ with a straight face. Like he means it, god forbid.” Arthur peeled his aching body away from the bike and grimaced in Alfred’s general direction. “Honestly, it’s nauseating, even for a place like this.” 

Francis leaned over and flicked Arthur on the nose, obnoxious asshole that he was, and said, “And yet you want to fuck him ever so much, don’t you, my dear?” 

Arthur considered the flex of Alfred’s thighs, the way his finger curled around the handlebars when they were slogging their way through a climb, the way his cheeks hollowed out as he told them to inhale-exhale, the way he bit the edge of his lip when a song he really liked came on, the way he smiled at Arthur when he had finally, finally made it to the top of the leaderboard. 

“God, yes.” 

Francis’ cackle echoed through the studio as Alfred chose that very moment to turn the blaring music down to a less ear-bleed inducing level. Arthur buried his face in his towel and cursed Francis’ existence. 

“It will never happen,” Arthur lamented. Idiot gods like Alfred didn’t typically slum it with lazy, only mildly-toned commoners like him. 

“Come now, that sort of can’t do attitude has no place at Spin Country!” Tell him you need him to check out your seat,” Francis suggested, “Or that you really really, _really_ want to sync up your cadence with his.” 

“Very droll,” Arthur muttered. “Excellent ideas, as always, Frog.” 

“I’m merely trying to help you get worked out and worked over.” Francis shrugged prettily and squeezed Arthur’s shoulder as he made his way to the door. “You’ll never get the ride you really want if all you do is pine and whine from the back row.” 

“Fuck right off.” 

Arthur hated it more than anything when Francis was right. Truly unconscionable. It was almost as unconscionable as the sight of Francis pausing at the front of the studio to sidle up to their gorgeous American instructor and point in Arthur’s direction with a mischievous grin. 

Alfred’s questioning grin as he met Arthur’s panicked gaze was enough to make him break into an entirely different kind of sweat. He twisted his towel between his fingers and tried to remember to inhale-exhale as Alfred came ambling over, all tight muscles and deranged enthusiasm. 

“So,” Alfred said, startling Arthur with his ability to speak at a normal volume (for an American), “Your friend up there tells me you need some advice on riding positions that don’t, uh, forgive my French, chafe your ass?” 


	2. Chapter 2

Francis was going to die. Soon, Arthur promised himself, soon enough, but first he had to deal with his Francis-induced American problem. As if he wanted the first time Alfred had mentioned any part of his body to be in relation to this ridiculous experiment in ritualized stupidity masquerading as an empowering exercise class. No, no, Alfred was supposed to notice Arthur’s assets one day as they were both suddenly alone in the locker room and Arthur was putting on his socks, bending over in the perfect position for Alfred to admire the flex in his thighs and ask if Arthur needed a hand with --

“Dude, are you OK?” Alfred’s hand was reaching for Arthur’s shoulder, interrupting the rapidly escalating train of Arthur’s porngraphic thoughts. 

Clearly he had been rendered brain damaged by too little breathing and too much exertion, Arthur thought wearily, suddenly desperate to be out of the studio and busy getting to work on killing Francis slowly and painfully. 

“My ass,” Arthur said with as much dignity as he could muster with pit stains the size of Wales and a burgeoning boner in his too tight shorts, “is just fine, thank you very much. No need to give it so much as another thought.” 

The American looked confused, like a puppy whose nose had just been swatted with a rolled up newspaper. It was, to Arthur’s horror, kind of hot. 

“Sure thing, buddy, I was just following-up on what FrenchKiss69 told me you needed,” Alfred said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “You should tell him to come up with a better handle, by the way. FrenchKiss69? What are we, 13?” 

“That sounds like Francis, yes,” Arthur said, loving Alfred just a little bit more for liking Francis just a little bit less than every other person on the planet seemed to do.

“And you,” Alfred pointed at him and smiled, blinding Arthur with his too perfect white teeth, “2English4This, you should stop pretending that you don’t feel anything. I can tell what’s really going on while you’re on that bike, what you’re really thinking.” 

“I should hope not,” Arthur muttered, certain that he would have been summarily banned from the premises with his membership revoked had Alfred been privy to the 1,000 ways Arthur objectified and defiled him in his thoughts. 

“It’s OK! You don’t have to hide it from me -- I see the way you get all intense and focused, like you’ve gone somewhere else --”

Yes, Arthur thought, mostly to bed with you-- 

“And I get it, man,” Alfred said, reaching out his hand on Arthur’s chest, splaying his long, callused fingers over Arthur’s beating heart. “You’re a true believer. You are a _soul_ cycler. Just like me.” 

Arthur closed his eyes to keep from laughing in Alfred’s naive, beautiful face. “Maybe not just like you, I’m still in the beginner’s series of classes, after all.” 

Alfred thumped him on the chest, “And yet here you are, every Tuesday and Thursday. Boss up, crown straight, hooked on the burn.” 

Alfred’s smile was irresistible, undeniable -- the type of unrestrained American grin that made Arthur’s toes curl in his shoes and warmed his cold little heart. 

“Yes, I’m certainly hooked on the…burn.”

Alfred’s smile got impossibly wider. Arthur wondered if Alfred’s cheeks hurt at the end of the day from all that constant, insistent happiness and confidence. It made Arthur’s jaw ache just thinking about it. 

“That’s great, bro!!” Alfred’s hand curled into a fist, still resting on Arthur’s wildly pounding heart. “And look, if you’re ready to take the next step with me --” 

“I am,” Arthur breathed out before he could stop himself. 

“Then you should totally sign up for my 6am HIIT workout this coming Saturday,” Alfred enthused. “I know you’re ready -- you can totally take it!” 

Still bewitched and not a little bewildered by this demi-god of athleticism and corny catch phrases abiding belief in him (and desperately wanting to show Alfred that, yes, he could totally take many, many things that Alfred had to offer), Arthur made a deal with the devil and said _yes_. 

“Awesome, awesome,” Alfred said, dropping his hand from Arthur’s chest. “Well, then I’ll guess I’ll see you in a few days.” He winked as he turned to leave the room and called over his shoulder, “RISE AND GRIND, BABY! RISE AND GRIND!” 

Two minutes later, Arthur stumbled out of the studio and into the steam of the locker room, still dazed and confused by everything that had happened to him. 

“So, did Monsieur McSmile give you a hands-on tutorial of how to properly ride?” 

Francis’s smarmy, obnoxious voice and stupid face broke Arthur from his reverie. He beckoned Francis closer, crooking his little finger and smiling until Francis came close enough for Arthur to wrap his fingers in Francis’s newly wet hair and pull until Francis yelped like the little bastard that he was. 

“I certainly hope you don’t have any plans for Friday night.” 

“Why? Too many rejections on Grindr already?” Francis said, undaunted in his assholery despite his precarious position. 

“Thanks to you and your meddling, I’ve said yes to 60 minutes of high intensity torture at 6 bloody am on Saturday morning!” Arthur gave Francis’ hair one last sharp tug for good measure. “You’re damned well going to suffer alongside me.” 

Francis pouted. “Don’t blame me for your dickful thinking, my darling.” 

“I blame you for most things,” Arthur complained, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it at Francis’ face. “You’re coming and that’s final.” 

“Very well, if you are too cowardly to face your little American crush alone, I’ll be there.”

Francis looked disgusted as the sweat stained shirt slid down his still bare torso. “But you will be taking me to brunch afterwards! And not some place with the cheap bottomless mimosas that are more orange juice than champagne.” 

“Truly, you are the worst.” 

“My help doesn’t come for free.” Francis dropped Arthur’s shirt down on the bench and sauntered away. “Not even for the desperate and lovelorn.”

“I hate you.” 

Francis blew him a kiss over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll be sure to talk to America for you next time, too.” 

“Stop doing me favors!!” Arthur shouted, but it was too late, Francis had already disappeared, leaving Arthur to stew in his sweaty, impotent rage and wonder, what, exactly he should wear to a 6am not-a-date.


End file.
